


Plom Blooms in the Duracrete

by Azure_Lynx



Category: Solo: A Star Wars Story (2018), Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Ambiguously coded important committed relationships, Found Family, Han's type: pretty boys and women with enough common sense for the lot of them, I just love these three okay!!, Multi, Qi'ra will kill a man for Han but she will also die before she admits it, Scrappy Space Orphans, Star Wars AU - Soft Wars, Warning for oblique mentions of child sex work but nothing explicit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-14 17:01:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28923999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azure_Lynx/pseuds/Azure_Lynx
Summary: Han’s the one who finds him, because Han is the one who always finds the strays. He’s soft like that.A pair of orphans in Coronet City meet a teenage Boba Fett striking out on his own. Somehow, they come to be each others' everything.
Relationships: Boba Fett & Han Solo, Boba Fett & Qi'ra, Han Solo & Boba Fett & Qi'ra, Han Solo & Qi'ra, Han Solo/Boba Fett/Qi'ra
Comments: 3
Kudos: 45
Collections: Open Source Soft Wars





	Plom Blooms in the Duracrete

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [poison tree](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26999608) by [Ro29](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ro29/pseuds/Ro29). 
  * Inspired by [Five Blankets (And One Nap)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24872899) by [Project0506](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Project0506/pseuds/Project0506). 



> Warning for oblique mentions of child sex work but nothing explicit. If you want to skip the bits that're more than two words anyway, first is from "Maybe it’s a little mean" to "Draft swallows thickly" and the second is the opening of the final scene at "She would be mad" to "He throws open the closet." Contained in that second segment is also a part where Qi'ra briefly puts Boba's blaster to her forehead, but it's about 2 seconds.  
> Also if you haven't read "Five Blankets" yet for whatever reason, this won't make quite as much sense - namely, Boba gives Qi'ra and Han a fake name.  
> Lastly, the title was inspired by a poem by Tupac and a TEDtalk by Jeff Duncan-Andrade.

Han’s the one who finds him, because Han is the one who always finds the strays. He’s soft like that.

Qi’ra has been keeping a close eye on their credits and she can safely say they _can’t_ afford to feed another mouth, even if he’s willing to sleep on their floor, but she knows Han’s response will be that this scruffy boy can take his food. He’s just _like that_ , and it’s something she both loves and despises about him.

Honestly, it’s a wonder he made it to fifteen. 

He throws open the door with a boisterous, “Honey, I’m home!” and drags the boy in like a lothcat that followed him back.

“Han,” she greets, funneling as much exhaustion in as possible. 

“Sweetheart,” he replies with an audible smirk. 

“Who is this?”

The boy looks about Han’s age and shifts awkwardly from foot to foot. He makes no move to speak.

“This is Draft,” Han volunteers for him. “He’s going to stay with us a while.”

“Is he, now.” She delivers it flatly, not even a question. It’s a stupid name, but that’s hardly the most pressing detail.

“Yep.” Han pops the ‘p,’ confident and casual like a man who’s already won. 

Draft twitches towards the door. “This was a mistake.” Before he can get any farther, Han snatches his wrist and holds him. The boy blushes. 

Qi’ra holds back a snort. Yeah, Han’s pretty, but he’s also karking annoying, and this new one will figure that out real quick. 

“Stay,” Han replies. “You said you didn’t have anywhere else; we’re the only people who aren’t going to scam you for room and board.”

“But we _are_ charging?” Qi’ra inquires, because Han Solo is a bleeding heart, and it’s her job to make sure he doesn’t bleed away their credits, too.

Draft nodded tersely. “I’ll pay.” 

Han looks ready to protest and she glares him into submission. Somehow, even though they’d both grown up working for the same gang, he’d never learned one bit of common sense and survival instinct. Oh, sure, he can cheat at cards and run scams like no other, but he’s a sucker for a pretty face. Qi’ra has always had to be smart and strong enough for the both of them.

Qi’ra is a survivor. She will bite and claw and scream and steal and she will _survive_ to make something of her life. Han was never part of the plan, but...well, it helps having someone to watch her back. 

Qi’ra has only ever had one weakness, and she shares a mattress with him.

“Credits.” She holds her hand out expectantly, and the new boy places a reasonable amount in her palm. She likes him for this.

He wears _beskar’gam_ , though it’s incomplete. She likes him for that, too, knows exactly what it means even when Han clearly doesn’t. She knows this boy’s face. It’s the face of someone bred for a war that’s over.

She knows there are a million others like him out there in a place called _Concord Dawn_ and she wonders if he knows it, too.

“We’ve only got one mattress,” she says, turning her back to him. It’s a way of signifying trust, but if he tries anything, she can whip around and have a dagger to his throat in thirty seconds.

“I can sleep on the floor,” Draft promises. “I’ve slept on worse.”

Han makes a sympathetic noise. Qi’ra might feel it, but she doesn’t verbalize it. They too have slept on worse.

“So, Han, how’d you find him?” Qi’ra demands, returning to the dinner she’d just started making. There’s not enough for three people, so she has to weigh carefully whether to use ingredients designated for a different day or to simply make smaller portions.

She makes smaller portions.

“Well, I was hanging around the spaceport,” Han begins, as no good story does.

Draft cuts him off. “The crew I was running with dumped me here. Han tried to pick my pocket and I kicked his _shebs_.”

Qi’ra isn’t even sure what pocket Han attempted to pick - she sure can’t see any - but the comment about kicking his ass made her laugh. Draft looks mildly dazzled and she snaps her mouth shut suddenly. 

Maker. She knows she’s pretty - Han won’t let her forget, for one thing, and it just so happens to be one of her strongest assets, makes running scams and turning tricks laughably easy with her big tooka eyes - but she forgets, sometimes, how it makes boys stupid. 

That part is easy to forget because Han is just always stupid. 

“So what?” she replies. “Stuck on Corellia with no way out?”

Draft shrugs noncommittally. “Something like that.”

 _Where’s your vode?_ she doesn’t ask. _Why doesn’t someone come get you?_

You don’t stay alive in Coronet City by asking questions, and you learn quickly what is and isn’t your business. It’s easy to tell them apart: things that are your business are trying to kill you, whereas things that _aren’t_ your business will simply _get_ you killed. Incidentally. 

Qi’ra has no interest in dying over a boy, no matter how pretty he might be. Han is liable enough to kill her all on his own.

“Gonna look for work?” she asks. Han is oddly silent, so she’s doing the uncomfortable job of carrying the conversation, but when she peers out of the corner of her eye, she just sees Han staring like a lovestruck eopie. 

Though if the boy kicked his ass, it’s no wonder Han’s all soft. He’s got a type. 

Draft shrugs again. “I’m a bounty hunter.”

She snorts. Of course he is.

“Dunno how much work you’ll find around here,” she cautions. “People in this part of the city aren’t the ones posting bounties.” They’re the ones the bounties are for, typically, is what she doesn’t say. 

“Then I’ll look somewhere else,” he says, like it’s that easy, like there aren’t a million obstacles, like he wouldn’t get immediately stopped by law enforcement looking like he does. She raises one unimpressed eyebrow, actually turning her face so he can see it, and he looks embarrassed. “Or - I’ll just...do whatever it is you two do.”

Maybe it’s a little mean, but she can’t help herself. “You hardly seem like the type to sweet talk spacers into a hotel room, _darling_.” 

His face goes bright red. “I - you -”

“Qi’ra!” Han admonishes. She shrugs, unrepentant. It’s a hard life; sugar-coating it does everyone a disservice. “You don’t have to,” Han promises Draft quickly. “You don’t ever have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

She holds back a bitter laugh at the implication that she _wants_ to bed men at least twice her age. Han gets a bit of an ego-boost out of it, somehow manages to compartmentalize it like it doesn’t bother him at all, but Qi’ra spends forever in the ‘fresher after those days. The length of the shower (a real water shower, because nothing else will work) is proportional to the amount of credits and what it took to acquire them.

Draft swallows thickly. “I’ll find something to pay my way,” he promises. Then, uncomfortably earnest: “And - more, if I can, so you don’t have to - to do that.”

“I don’t need your pity,” Qi’ra bites back, putting the stew in bowls. She used to dream of not having to turn tricks, but every man who gives you money _expects_ something of it. Han is the exception to prove the rule. And street-rat former soldiers aren’t going to go around doing favors out of the goodness of their hearts. “You’ll sleep on our floor, you’ll pay for your food, and when you find your way off this rock, you’ll leave.”

Han looks startled and a little saddened at the implication, like he thought they were going to keep Draft forever or something, but the boy curls his lip tightly and nods once, clipped. “Understood.”

“We pick pockets, too,” Han volunteers to fill the awkward silence that follows. “And I’m the best Sabacc player on Corellia. Maybe even in the Core Worlds.”

“The best cheater, you mean.” Qi’ra feels a little tension slip out of her shoulders, but she isn’t relaxed by any means.

Han waves airily. “Same thing. Everyone cheats.”

They don’t have a table; they eat dinner sitting on the floor of their tiny apartment that never gets clean no matter how much Qi’ra scrubs. She probably would’ve given up by now if there wasn’t something pathological about it. There’s one window letting in the faintest light through a layer of grime, and it casts an off-color sheen onto Draft’s face. 

She can see, now, why Han is so taken with him. But still, someone has to be smart between the two of them. She turns her gaze deliberately down towards the stew.

Han found his voice at some point and is carrying the conversation for the three of them. It’s a relief, to be able to hold her tongue and simply listen to his inane chatter, about scams and the new casino opening up and that thing he saw on the holo and, and, and… Qi’ra lets it fade into the background as she runs their numbers in her head again, adding on the credits from Draft. It’s enough, for now. Even if it wasn’t, she’s always been able to make things stretch.

Their mattress is tucked into the corner of their single room, threadbare and worn and lumpy. It hadn’t been new when they’d stolen it a year back, but by now it looks dilapidated and ancient. Han says they should steal a new one from one of the Casinos; Qi’ra knows there’s no way two fifteen-year-olds will just get away with a double mattress. 

She strips down to her underlayer and Draft turns pink again. She’s begrudgingly starting to like the color on him. 

“We don’t have enough blankets,” she points out, feeling a solitary spark of compassion for the boy. 

“He can take one of ours,” Han volunteers, because they do have a couple on the bed. Coronet City gets cold at night, no matter what time of year it is. 

Qi’ra bristles indignantly at the suggestion and Draft snorts. “Just cuddle your boyfriend for warmth.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” she snaps back, and Han’s face falls like they haven’t had this conversation before, like he had any mistaken notion otherwise. 

Draft holds his hands up in mock surrender. “My mistake. Point stands,” he continues. “Body heat. But I don’t need a blanket.” 

He looks like he means it, too, curling up against the wall beside their bed, eyes on the door. He tucks his chin onto his knees and doesn’t make any move to take off his _beskar’gam_.

Qi’ra shrugs. “You heard the man.” Before Han can protest, she’s burrowing, taking as many of the blankets as she can. Han says she’s unfair, but he’s a blanket thief; she needs to start the night prepared. Sacrificing one to Draft would’ve only weakened her chances of sleeping warmly. 

Han grumbles and slides into the corner, next to the wall. Qi’ra sleeps closest to the door; it’s non-negotiable, but Han has never tried to argue. He mutters something about when he’s finished with the next blanket - which will be awhile, because they’ve run out of yarn - and how she’ll see then.

Draft is sitting a respectful distance from the mattress and almost smiling at them. When he catches her looking, he turns his head back towards the door quickly. 

He doesn’t sleep all night. She knows this because, for the first time in Maker-knows-how-long, she _does_. It’s negligent on her part, really; they have no evidence Draft can truly be trusted. But her body doesn’t care, and it collapses into the relief of letting someone else stay vigilant for one night, and she slumbers dreamlessly until she wakes up with the first bit of sun, Draft’s eyes firmly on her.

“Thank you,” she says, and makes him a cup of caf, even though that’s a very limited resource. She doesn’t know if he understands what she’s thanking him for. “Tell Han I’m going out.”

Han is still snoring, now surrounded by a cocoon of covers, exactly as anticipated. Draft nods once, sparing the sleeping boy an almost-smile, and tilts his head goodbye as she slips out the door and secures all three locks. 

Perhaps...perhaps she could get used to this.

* * *

Draft comes and goes as he pleases and it’s about two weeks when Qi’ra makes her peace with the fact he’s not leaving. She hasn’t made her peace with the fact she doesn’t _want_ him to, but she’s much better at repressing emotions than hating herself for them, so that’s her present strategy. Self-loathing takes time and energy that she simply does not have. 

She gets him a key made. She pays for it with his credits. 

Han has been working a little less now, sleeping a little more, taking advantage of having a third income. Qi’ra hasn’t slowed down at all, because if she’s careful enough and busy enough, they might be able to afford a chargepack to keep their heater going a while. Then she’ll be less cold when they throw blankets at Draft for the night.

Not that he sleeps at night. He stays in the small room - or at least, she thinks he does, and there’s no way she’d sleep through the door opening - and holds watch while she sleeps. She’s pretty sure they’ve never been asleep at the same time. 

He sleeps odd hours, which goes along with the whole “coming-and-going” part, but she’s never come home to find him asleep before today. 

Draft and Han are curled up on the mattress, tangled in the mess of blankets. She’s home later than she meant to be, but she’d won a couple games of dice and had the credits to show for it. It made up for the fact she’d had to double back and take the long way home to lose a Trandoshan who’d been following her since the Casino.

Draft stirs, and she thinks he might wake up, but he just sighs and shuffles closer to Han.

She takes a shower - sonic, because she’d been working the casino floor, not the rooms - and scrubs the makeup off her face. There’s a child staring back at her in the small mirror. Somehow, that feels like more of a lie than the powders and creams artfully applied to make her look Just Old Enough. 

Draft’s holding a plate when she emerges, Ghoba Rice and vegetables. It’s still warm, somehow.

“We kept a plate for you,” he says unnecessarily, and she takes it from his hands and plops down on the floor to eat.

It’s spicy. Her eyes water. There’s some Mando’a word for this taste, she knows, but she doesn’t know what the word _is_ ; the few words she does know are miracle enough. 

She doesn’t say ‘thank you,’ but he watches her the entire time she eats, and the speed with which she consumes the food is thanks enough.

He takes the plate and she tilts her head back against the wall, closing her eyes so she doesn’t have to look at the dirty ceiling. So she can pretend it’s the sky or something.

Draft settles in next to her, close enough so she can feel his body heat and far enough so he’s not touching her. “You should sleep,” he suggests softly. 

“Don’t wanna.” It’s not that she’s not tired, it’s just that her veins are made of plasma and if she tries to sleep now she might set the bed - the whole room - on fire. 

“I’m leaving early tomorrow and you’re not going to sleep much after I go.” It’s the closest to acknowledgment either of them has ever gotten. “May as well do it now.” She makes a reluctant noise. “You’re better when you’re well-rested.”

It’s true. The scams run smoother, and she trusts herself better on when to walk away. Like hell she’ll tell him he’s got a point though. 

“Fine.” She strips off her clothes quickly and crawls into bed. Instinctively, Han curls forward, into her, making soft mumblings in his sleep. She smiles. 

Draft looks at her, sometimes, like he knows there’s a softer version of her under all the roughness and bitterness. She’ll call it presumptuous whether he’s right or not. But he seems soft, in a way she never had the opportunity to be. 

She thinks he knows he’s lucky. 

She thinks, maybe, she’s happy anyway.

* * *

Qi’ra doesn’t ever remember her birthday.

Han does, and every year he undertakes the challenge of finding her a gift that is both nice and worthless. If it held any value, she’d sell it for credits so they could eat, and he knows this. He wants her to hang onto these things. 

This year’s addition to her pointless collection is a small plastoid massiff. It’s bright blue and the eyes are large and completely inappropriately cute.

She loves it. 

Han gets a kiss on the cheek for it and his whole face turns red. 

“It’s from Draft too,” he adds, and now the other boy is blushing and Qi’ra wonders, for an instant, if kissing his cheek also to see him turn redder is worth it. 

She discovers it very much is. 

“Han didn’t warn me ahead of time, otherwise I would’ve -” 

“Shut up, it’s fine.”

Qi’ra has very few possessions to her name. The collection of junk birthday presents makes up most of that list. She has a small box where she stores them, and she now takes a minute to lovingly add the ridiculous massiff to the top of the pile. 

“Some day, I’ll get you a real one,” Han promises grandly. 

Qi’ra snorts. “You already brought one pet home for me to feed.”

Draft bristles, but he’s cute when he does it. “Hey!” Han just gives a hearty laugh and slings an arm over Draft’s shoulders, semi-ineffectively due to the height disparity. 

“This one’s cuter than a massiff, though,” she adds, reveling in how his face turns redder. 

“Brat,” he mutters under his breath, just loud enough for her to hear. 

Well, that won’t do. 

“Han, defend my honor,” she demands with a smirk, and the arm over his shoulders turns into a weapon as Draft stumbles and falls onto the mattress, Han close behind. They tussle, hand over hand, and Qi’ra knows intuitively that Draft is holding back, that he could best Han in an instant if that’s what he really wanted.

Qi’ra stands imperiously off to the side pretending she’s better than this, as if she wasn’t the one to start it, but it’s surprisingly hard to keep the smile off her lips.

She hasn’t laughed like this in years. She’d thought maybe she’d forgotten how.

Han winds up pinned under Draft, the position saying he’s lost but his face saying he’s won. He has the look in his eye that means trouble, that Qi’ra should get ready to clean up after his mess, but he can’t cause too many problems from down there.

Draft rolls off him, panting hard. “I win.”

“Perhaps,” Han replies with the biggest, proudest smile on his face. 

Draft raises one eyebrow and stands, then startles and pats himself down. Han begins to cackle. 

“ _Osik!_ ” That’s one of the swears he’s taught Qi’ra. “Where’s my kriffing blade, _di’kut_?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Han replies completely unconvincingly. 

“There’s not even - where can you _hide_ it?” Draft demands, dropping back to his knees over Han and patting around the mattress. If possible, Han looks even more smug. 

Qi’ra laughs harder, and she keeps laughing when Draft finds his blade, and when he throws it aside a tad too precisely to be called careless and wrestles Han back down. 

She had missed laughing.

* * *

She would be mad about Draft following her up from the casino floor if he hadn’t been right about her client. No, actually, scratch that: she’s still mad, even though he was right, as her client lays dead on the expensive carpet with a blaster bolt between his eyes. 

“He was hurting you,” Draft says, the edge of his blaster still hot. 

She knows that because she has it pressed against her forehead, daring him to pull the trigger. “Yeah, well, now I’m going to be karking dead, so you may as well do it before law enforcement gets a chance to hurt me worse.”

This man was the kind of man people would miss, unlike her. He had a family and a business and a _deep_ debt to the casino. This wasn’t something she could get away with. 

“You’re not dead,” he replied, yanking his blaster out of her hand and holstering it, “and you’re not going to be. Come on.”

“ _Draft_ ,” she warns as he tries to take her hand and tug her to her feet. “Draft, if I let go, the fabric’s gonna fall off.”

He lets out a very colorful string of swears in Mando’a, only about half of which he’s taught her. “If I hadn’t already, I’d kill him for that.”

“That’s not going to change the fact you want me to run through the casino in my underthings.” She’s already crossing her arms, so she makes an audible huff to make sure her point carries. 

He throws open the closet and finds a grown man’s shirt that’ll be a dress on her. It’s nearly triple the amount of fabric she was wearing when she entered the room, and she’s more relieved than she cares to admit as she slips it over her head. 

“I’m not leaving without getting paid,” she insists next, and Draft glares at her and swears again in Mando’a, deliberately one of the ones he hasn’t taught her. She stands on her sprained ankle with barely a wince, letting the tattered lace of what used to be her best working dress fall to the floor.

Draft finds the man’s credits in no time at all. It’s a lot - it’s more than enough to feed them for weeks. But food isn’t worth much to a corpse, which is what she’ll be when the Guard catches her.

He wastes a bare second to clean off her bloodied face with a towel. It’s practical, she assures herself: they’ll attract less attention if all she has is a black eye and a few cuts. But it still makes her heart stutter, how softly he touches her. 

“I don’t have shoes,” she points out, and her heels lie broken off to the side of the body. Draft doesn’t even hesitate, just scoops her up onto his back and carries her like it’s nothing. She’s acutely aware that though they’re close in age, Draft has never known the months of near-starvation that make Han and Qi’ra so much smaller than him.

They make it out of the casino without Draft shooting anyone else, which is a minor miracle, and then he races through the back alleyways towards their apartment. Their apartment, all three of them. Though not for much longer. 

“Han, grab your things, we’re going.” Draft doesn’t give the boy time to ask questions or anything, just grabs his go-pack (always ready to leave) and the box of treasures Qi’ra keeps. Han grabs their life’s savings (meager) and their favorite blanket and follows him out the door without question. 

He should really question. He’s gonna get himself killed, especially now that she won’t be around to look out for him. 

“Draft, what the kriff?” she demands, when it seems like Han really has no intention to. 

“Spaceport,” he replies shortly. “We’re getting off-planet.”

He says it like it’s easy, like it’s a totally executable plan, but the one good thing about turning tricks and subsequently killing your employer at night is that the spaceport is less guarded. 

Less guarded, however, not _un_ guarded. 

“Hey! Kid!” There’s a togruta in charge of the night shift who takes issue with the three of them simply barrelling inside. “Stop there!”

“Do you even have a _ship_?” Qi’ra demands, and Han looks wounded at the possibility of not having been informed. 

“Not yet,” he grits back, scanning. His eyes settle and he must see something he likes because he takes off sprinting again, jostling Qi’ra the whole time. 

The ship Draft found was already occupied by a Spacer; the bewildered pilot (some near-human species with off-color skin) took the butt of Draft’s blaster to his forehead and hit the ground about three seconds after waking up.

“We’re stealing a ship,” she realizes. “Oh, Maker.”

Well, if you’re in for a credit…

Draft deposits her on a soft bench and rushes to the cockpit closely behind Han. She doesn’t like being alone right now, or useless; she can hear the sirens wailing and the commotion outside. It sounds like whoever’s going to kill them is getting close. 

“Hurry up!” she snaps.

“I’m _trying_ ,” Han calls back. “Hotwiring ain’t easy!”

It’s like his complaining is the missing component as the lights click on and the hum of electronics surround her. She hears Han’s exuberant whoop, and then he takes off jerkily but with great enthusiasm. 

A projectile hits the side of the ship. 

“Kriff, kriff, kriff,” Han quietly chants under his breath. “Draft, give me some coordinates!” 

He must, because as soon as they break atmo, Qi’ra feels them slip into hyperspace. There are little alarms happening but she’s never known much about ships. She shoves to her feet, letting out a hiss of pain now that she has no witnesses, and hobbles to the cockpit. 

Han doesn’t get mad often, but he’s pissed now, crossing his arms and glaring. He turns the glare onto her as she enters. It doesn’t really hurt because she knows him well enough to know that he’s using the anger to fight the terror he doesn’t want to feel.

“There better be a kriffing good explanation for this.”

“It was time to leave.” Draft’s face is inscrutable beneath his mop of dark curls. Qi’ra knows that isn’t going to cut it.

Han makes a sound like a casino buzzer. “No. Try again.”

Han has never looked at Draft with anything less than adoration, and Qi’ra is pretty sure the boy is realizing that fact right now and wishing to go back. 

“I was working a guy and he got a little rough and Draft decided I needed saving,” she explains, perhaps a bit more viciously than necessary, but now that she’s on the ship and _away_ , everything was crashing down on her. 

Only then does Han notice her black eye and cut face. “Qi’ra!” 

“I’m fine,” she lies, the same way she has all her life, but it sounds less convincing this time. 

Draft stands up from the co-pilot’s chair, tension in his shoulders. “There are probably bacta patches around here somewhere,” he offers, and after giving Han one last reassuring squeeze, she follows him back out to the bench. 

“Thank you,” she says, finally, when they’re sitting down and he’s rubbing bacta on her split lip. His hand cups her chin impossibly gently. “I think he might have - really done some damage if you hadn’t stepped in.” 

“I couldn’t let him hurt you,” he replies. His gaze finds hers with alarming intensity. “I _won’t_ let anything hurt you. Either of you.”

It makes her feel warm on the inside.

The sirens keep screaming, oblivious to the moment they’re interrupting. 

“Where are you taking us, anyway?” she asks, mildly surprised she hasn’t asked before now. 

“It’s a place called Concord Dawn,” he replies. 

Before either of them can say any more, the alarms get louder and they hear Han swear in the cockpit. “Buckle up, friends,” he intones. “We’re in for a rough landing.”

**Author's Note:**

> So I realized after I wrote this that in the main Soft Wars canon, Qi'ra and Han seem to be maybe slightly younger than I portray them here; that said, I think this is still completely compliant, it's just that Qi'ra gets to be a kid for once in her life. Anyway, I love these three so much, I would die for them. I'm tossing y'all my content as love of them and love of Soft Wars.  
> This brought me such joy to write. I hope it brought you the same joy to read.


End file.
